


Mazurka

by mumblebumblebee



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fromage, Instrument people, Instruments made of people, Murder, S1E8, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2652746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblebumblebee/pseuds/mumblebumblebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short story for my AS English coursework based on an episode of NBCs hannibal. Obviously not what actually happens in the episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mazurka

They play.

This has become a melody like no other. This sound; created, crafted.

But it is an old sound that groans like aged stairs, the creak of a strings first performance.

The person before them now, reinvented. He had spent his time before this dedicated to music – to the performance.

His orchestra had performed this evening, symphonies and covered compositions, Beethoven and Bach.

The inspiration had been overwhelming, electric, thick in the air. The audience buzzing.

They knew this was their time.

True appreciation of music deserved authenticity.

These strings required a little more work than usual, but who knew the chords that strike to form language could work such harmony against a bow.

Hard, deep vibrations reverberate through the space. Jarring sounds pull through the calm cloth of the silence and serenity of old architecture. Echoes of the pull of string on throat like applause. Encore.

Encore.

***

Will Graham was called to consult with this case. He was a professor of Behavioural Psychology who was more often at the front of a lecture theatre than a performing arts theatre.

The call had come in about 5am, by the time the FBI had arrived the local police had the area under control, and had left the crime scene un-tampered with, for once.

The body sat on a chair, centre stage. A single spotlight had been left on, making a spectacle of the scenario. It was less definite however, as the sun began to rise, the theatre now illuminated by soft rays of light streaming in through small windows high on the walls.

“What do you make of it?”

Will turned to face the person who had just broken the silence of the theatre. Apart from murmurs and oscillating blue from lights of police cars, there was only the subtle clacking of heels on floorboards.

It had been Jack Crawford. He was a special agent with the FBI, who asked Will to consult, for his unique insight into these situations.

He stepped forward from the steps leading to the stage tentatively, cocking his head. Another college picked up a bow from where it lay beside the chair, with a photographer cataloguing the scene from every angle.

“Well we’ve got something at least. Blow to the head, blunt object. No way to ID any suspects, but so far we’re saying adult, presumably male, about 6 ft. No weapon found, and no CCTV.”

Will listened to this information carefully, but made no move to acknowledge it. He leaned in closer to the body, pulling on latex gloves as he did, the snapping of rubber marking his commitment to the case.

“Hey, check this out.” Beverley Katz, another FBI special agent, announced. She held the bow in her hands, then tapped the back of it against her other hand, only to see a powder liberated from the strings, curling through the air.

Will stepped forward, running his finger along the edge of the bow strings, a delicate manner in his movements. He raised the end of his latex bound fingertip to his eye.

“There’s oil here too. Olive oil probably.”

“We’re gonna need the lab report from the autopsy. Are there any bottles or containers around? Tell you what it might be?” Jack questioned, hands on his hips, urgency bleeding into his tone.

“Nothing yet. Must’ve took it all with ‘em.” Beverley pondered.

“Right, let’s get this wrapped up.”

***

“Got the chemical tests, along with olive oil there was lye on the bow, sodium carbonate and peroxide, sulphur dioxide, and rosin powder on the body. Seems they went for something a little authentic; olive oil hasn’t been used in catgut for hundreds of years.” Beverley stated as she shucked off her lab coat, hanging it and returning to examine the clip board. 

Will was coming to more of an understanding now, grasping a concept of the mind that had done this. “They’ve done this before. This is their living – instruments. Strings. They’ll be an expert, makes strings themselves, maybe owns a store or commissions, sells them. ”

“’You know of any instrument shops in the area, that still make catgut?” Jack posed.

“I’m on it.”

***

They stared at the newspaper the following day; the headline was so bold, striking. 

Everyone could see, would see their work.

‘World class violinist found dead in theatre’.

They had imagined something more poetic, but any words dedicated to their efforts seems like poetry enough. 

The article also mentioned the FBI, which would make this endeavour more interesting. It shouldn’t take them long; there aren’t too many other suspects. They could’ve worked it out. 

Worked out who was capable of this, narrow it down, only to fall into their trap, their scheme.

Like a deer caught in barbed wire, they will only find the more they do, and struggle and try to escape there will only be the barbs.

Cutting deeper into their flesh.

The knots growing tighter.

The noise now is vociferous, forte and staccato as they practice on prepared strings. The notes chisel and chip away at the air, keening to the emptiness. The chorus of one with the coercion of a dozen, the crescendo composition causing the capacity to shift into something more malevolent, and unfortunate than before.   
The music deepens, builds and then,

they are ready.

***

Will steps from the car, pulling his coat tighter around himself. The chill causing him to shiver and his cheeks to flush. He approaches the music shop; ‘Cadenza’ printed on the sign above the doors.

Stepping inside, and letting the door fall close behind him, the whirring of wind silenced, and the sharp cold eased away.  
He eases forward into the building; the ceiling was high and white, the dark-stained wood polished brightly and the framed art complementing the pale blue walls. 

There was a large staircase in front of him, and two rooms to the right and left. Instruments were on display in both of them, Will peers in to find them empty.

He can hear music, faintly, coming from upstairs.

He treads up the staircase, his cold hand against the smooth bannister, and turns the corner when he reaches the top, the music is louder now. The tune is angry, fierce.

He approaches a counter that matches the floor, and deliberately taps twice on a polished silver bell. 

As the high chimes of the bell die off, so does the tune being played in the other room. 

Soft sounds of chairs moving around footfalls on hard wood are the only indication the door being opened.

And they are face to face.

“Finally.”

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments - constructive and criticism - are appreciated.   
> My first work on AO3 as well so if you have some holy water with you throw it at your screen and christen this pls.


End file.
